


Mr. Fell

by KuriKoer



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Badass Aziraphale, Demons, M/M, Theology, falling from grace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 10:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20338843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuriKoer/pseuds/KuriKoer
Summary: "...if aziraphale fell he would have an open book perched on his head and black wings with a faint hint of tartan and honestly i'm here for that look"Also: he doesn't have as far to Fall





	Mr. Fell

It was the first time they let their corporeal forms interlock in carnal pleasure and they were lying spent in each other's arms when Aziraphale suddenly tensed, arched his back, and cried out in pain. It lasted a long moment while Crowley fluttered uselessly, cold spreading through him with fear and memories of his own Fall.

"...Oh," Aziraphale said after the moment, which was not that long after all. "That wasn't so bad."

He opened his eyes. There were flames in them, distant and sharp and hot, like those dancing on the edge of a certain sword. He had an open book perched on his head, as if he'd forgotten it there and fallen asleep. The pages stuck to his light-coloured curls, as golden and soft as those of a newborn antichrist.

"It didn't hurt all that much," the not-an-angel-anymore said, wiggling to make himself more comfortable. "Stung, I won't lie."

Crowley, dumb with shock, noticed his wings. They were black now, not the pure sleek black of Crowley's own, but a muted, dull charcoal, with a faint pattern noticeable across the feathers. Crossing lines. Tartan. Dark greys and browns tartan feathers.

"I don't feel like that much has changed," Aziraphale was saying thoughtfully. "I'd expected... something bigger, somehow. More dramatic."

His skin was still supple and smooth, pale to almost a glowing point; like Crowley's own, it was human, but not quite. His body showed no marks or signs, no burns or ash, no rot or decay.

He didn't look any more demonic than before. That is to say, only a little bit.

He patted his head distractedly, fingers encountering the leatherbound cover. 

"I shouldn't think it was the sin of lust that did it," he said, sounding for all the world as if he's toying with a hypothesis rather than contemplating eternal damnation, "because I've been lusting after you for centuries. Millennia, really, if you want to nitpick."

Crowley dearly wanted to nitpick, but maybe now was not the time.

"There was clearly a consummation of _something_," Aziraphale prattled on, and Crowley couldn't bear it anymore.

"You fell from _grace_, angel," he said. "Isn't that - don't you - Argh!" he finished, lamely. There were grave and important questions to ask, but his mind couldn't quite form them coherently.

"Well, I didn't _love_ it," Aziraphale said reasonably, far too reasonably, entirely too calm for Crowley's nerves, "but it was to be expected, one way or another."

He _expected_ to Fall? More questions, and they all escaped Crowley with a single whine.

"You needn't worry, my dear. Nothing's changed," Aziraphale said and kissed the top of Crowley's head with exactly the same benevolent, beatific, _angelic_ kindness he'd always shown.

"Needn't _worry_?! You work for _Hell_ now!" Crowley protested.

Aziraphale licked his lips and his soft mouth curved into that vicious little smirk that Crowley had always adored, the one that showed what a bastard the angel truly was. 

"You know, I don't think I do," he said, and the flames in his eyes momentarily glowed brighter. 

[end]

**Author's Note:**

> It occurs to me at this point that if this happened, Aziraphale would be considered a rogue demon. Which ties to an old dialogue from Angel, the show (Wesley: I'm a rogue demon hunter. Cordelia: What's a rogue demon?)


End file.
